


The Blond Beatle

by mvernet



Series: The Blond Beatle Affair [11]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Butterflies, Canon-Typical Violence, Episode Related, First Kiss, M/M, Missing Scene, Songfic, The Beatles - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-21
Updated: 2016-03-21
Packaged: 2018-05-28 02:04:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,857
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6310738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mvernet/pseuds/mvernet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The last story of <i>The Blond Beatle Affair</i> Series.</p><p>Illya is back in New York and desperate to get home to his studio apartment to lick his wounds in private. Napoleon will not have it.</p><p>A songfic inspired by <i>And I Love Her</i> by The Beatles<br/>https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-Uk4ikyGFfk</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Blond Beatle

Napoleon Solo paced in the narrow waiting room outside of Medical at U.N.C.L.E. New York headquarters. The flight from Moscow to New York City had been trying and his uncharacteristic disheveled appearance showed every minute of the exhausting flight.

It wasn’t turbulence or jet lag that had Napoleon looking like he spent the night in a THRUSH cell. It was one little blond Russian spy who had single handedly reduced Napoleon, several stewardesses, a few first class passengers and one male nurse on loan from Leonid Brezhnev himself to quivering masses of protoplasm only fit to star in late night horror films. Illya, wide awake, in pain, high on caffeine and the lingering effects of a madman’s drugs, was a force not only to be reckoned with, but a force that, if harnessed, might possibly destroy mankind. Starting with Napoleon.

_I wouldn’t have it any other way. My Solnishko alive and loving me, despite his sullen, snarky, siberian sulk, was worth every torturous moment of the flight._

Napoleon took in the two other members of Illya’s family who were sharing the anxious wait - Mr. Waverly and Sam Tubman. 

Mr. Waverly face conveyed his own particular combination of worry and annoyance. Napoleon remembered how, as a young agent, he had awoken in Medical to his boss, unlit pipe in hand, telling him the mission had been a success and would he please try not to get bullet holes in his suit next time, U.N.C.L.E. was not made of money. 

Napoleon made yet another mental note in his rapidly growing _How To Be A Good Number One Section One,_ file.  
_Be there when your agents wake up in Medical, especially if they have no one else who cares._

Mr. Waverly looked slightly out of place sitting rigidly in an uncomfortable chair with a plaid tin of Mrs. Waverly’s famous macaroon cookies on his lap. Napoleon gave a slight smile at the sight.

_Auntie Waverly, making cookies for her new favorite nephew. Her deadly Russian spy nephew. It’s amazing the effect those blue eyes, blond hair and Mona Lisa smile have on women of all ages everywhere. It’s amazing the effect it’s had on me. I haven’t been with or even looked at a woman since that night at Birdland when Illya held my hand. Another thing I wouldn’t have any other way._

Sam Tubman looked like he needed three days rest and a vitamin B shot. He sat on an ugly green Naugahyde couch. One hand rubbed his reddened eyes and the other rested on two neatly folded calico quilts, one red, one green.

_Poor Sam. He looks like I feel. It was good of him to meet us on the roof when the medi chopper landed. That little Russian demon turned into an innocent little angel the minute he saw Sam. He had nothing but smiles, hugs and comforting words for the big ox. After everything Illya put me through on the flight, I almost throttled the both of them. The only thing that stopped me was the tears in the tough he-man’s eyes. He really loves him. And I know that feeling._

Napoleon sighed. Sam looked up at him with concern and patted the empty space next to him. Napoleon was surprised by his kindly demeanor.

“Hey, Hot Shot, come sit down for a minute. You look all done in. It can’t be much longer, can it? They just needed to take blood and get him settled in his room.”

“I’m worried, Sam. What if something is wrong? What if I missed something? Illya was so… out of it. He doesn’t remember a lot of what happened to him. What if I was too late to prevent…”

Waverly stood and cleared his throat. He placed the tin of cookies on the quilts by Sam, straightened his tie and his tweed jacket.

“Mr. Solo. Please. Sit. I am not accustomed to waiting for information on my own… Agent. I will not have it. I will make inquiries of Dr. Johnson…”

Dr. Johnson, looking all of his fifty odd years in his rumpled lab coat, chose that moment to enter the small waiting room, adjusting his horn-rimmed glasses and smoothing his gray hair. He showed a touch off apathetic surprise, as if he never had so many people waiting for news of an agent before. As a matter of fact, he never had. He usually only had to deal with an occasional worried colleague or in fatal cases, Mr. Waverly. That made his news all the more difficult to deliver.

All three men now stood nervously. Sam actually took Napoleon’s arm to offer support and to steady himself. Napoleon placed a hand on Sam’s, glad for the connection to another human being.

“Well? What is it, Dr. Johnson. Out with it!” Waverly had no patience left.

“Agent Kuryakin is gone, sir.”

Sam gasped. Napoleon squeezed his hand, hard.

“What do you mean? Gone? Explain yourself man!” Waverly came very close to shouting.

“I mean he’s gone! Vanished! Poof! Not here! All we found was this on his pillow.”

Dr. Johnson put out his hand, then opened it to reveal Illya’s diamond stud earring, sparkling defiantly in the harsh fluorescent lighting of the waiting room.

Napoleon helped Sam as the older man crumpled onto the ugly couch. He kept a hand on Sam’s shoulder as he cursed his partner.

“Infuriating, stubborn, exasperating, maddening, little blond devil! I’ll murder him for doing this to us!”

Sam let out a long, “Ohhhhhh!” And started to laugh.

Waverly turned his back and stormed out throwing words over his stiff shoulders. “Mr. Solo! Be so kind as to locate your partner. Deliver Mrs. Waverly’s tin. And when you murder him, make sure he’s quite dead.” No one heard his sigh of relief or saw his heartfelt smile as he headed for sanctity of his office.

~~~O~~~

Napoleon didn’t even bother to telephone his recalcitrant partner. He knew he would not answer the phone. He also knew in his gut that Illya was in his studio apartment, keeping company with an icy bottle of Stoli.

Illya wanted to go home. Had asked to be taken home about a hundred times. The stubborn fool had let the doctor examine him and take his blood, then feigned exhaustion. When the doctor was sure Illya was in a peaceful slumber, he left him alone. Big mistake.

Illya pulled out his IV, disabled the monitors in his room, redressed himself, seemingly became invisible and exited U.N.C.L.E. No camera caught a glimpse of him, yet all the doors opened for him. Not even Sal the Tailor had seen him leave. 

Napoleon walked as quickly as he could down the hallway on Illya’s floor. He was laden with Mrs. Waverly’s cookies, a paper bag of take out from _Eng’s,_ Illya’s favorite Chinese restaurant, three prescriptions from medical in his raincoat, two quilts and one diamond earring tucked in his jacket’s inside breast pocket. Outside Illya’s door he heard a strange rhythmic tapping and the sweet rumbling of Illya’s voice. Napoleon shook his head and played a hunch. He turned the knob on Illya’s door and found it was unlocked.

“Illya Nickovetch Kuryakin!” Napoleon checked the alarm and saw it was never engaged. “I can’t even begin to tell you how dangerous and idiotic it is to sit here with an opened door when you are supposed to be in medical! What the hell are you thinking, partner mine? You nearly gave Sam a heart attack. Waverly told me it was okay to assassinate you! Illya?”

Napoleon stopped his rant when he saw his Russian. He drank him in.

Illya was sitting cross legged and bare footed on the floor leaning against his old couch. He was shirtless, his bruised chest and bandaged wrists and ankles, indicating a rainbow of hurt. He was wearing only blue pajama bottoms. His head was down and his freshly washed hair, was dancing along with the beating of the bongo drums tucked into his lap. 

Next to him was a chipped glass of clear liquid, very likely vodka, and his cheap transistor radio. The little black, plastic, leather-wrapped radio sprouted a jury-rigged wire that split into two ear jacks and disappeared into Illya’s spun gold mop top.

Napoleon took in the luscious sight of his Illya playing bongos along with the radio and smiled. In the next second, he was looking at irritated, sky blue eyes and the barrel of Illya’s gun. Illya yanked the ear jacks out of his ears.

“Nyet! Do not _scold_ me! I told everyone who would listen and many who would not that I wanted to go _home!_ I begged you, Napoleon. I begged you to take me home.” He clicked the safety on his gun and set it down on the floor within reach, then crossed his arms over his chest.

Napoleon locked the door and set the alarm. Illya was watching his every move closely with a stormy frown. Napoleon deposited the red and green calico quilts on the couch. He saw Illya’s mouth twitch. He placed the large sturdy Chinese food bag on the coffee table. Illya’s eyes flicked to the take out menu stapled to the bag and a rather aromatic stain creeping up the side. 

Napoleon bent over to pick up Illya’s glass and tasted it. Vodka. He shook his head and placed it on the table far away from his partner. He placed three prescription bottles next to the food and which earned a scowl and a flash of blue lightning from Illya’s eyes.

Napoleon remained silent as he handed Illya the plaid tin. Illya took it and glanced at Napoleon’s face. 

Napoleon cleared his throat.

“From Mrs. Waverly. Seems the people in your life care deeply about your well-being, Illya.”

Illya looked down at the old fashioned tin and opened it slowly so as to not harm the contents. The scent of sweet coconut and vanilla filled his senses. He tentatively removed one from its waxed papered nest and took a bite. It was soft and delicious and filled with well wishes. He could taste the love baked into each one. 

Illya looked up at Napoleon who was struggling out of his raincoat, jacket and tie. He had already kicked off his shoes and was flexing his toes. After discarding his coat, Napoleon opened the top three buttons on his shirt and pulled out his communicator. Illya gave him half a smile.

“Open channel K… Sam? Our boy’s at home safe and sound… and eating cookies. All’s well. Tell Waverly for me, please?” 

“Sure thing, Hot Shot. Tell him to put his earring back in or I’ll come up with a way to stick a tracker on him where the sun don’t shine. And thanks, Napoleon for bringing him home. Out.”

Napoleon put away his communicator and sat on Illya’s sagging couch. He handed Illya the earring.

“You heard the man, Illya.”

Illya grumbled and put the stud in his ear. “You seem to have… bonded with Sam while I was gone. Now both of you will be forever monitoring me, mothering me and annoying me.” He patted his hair back in place. ”Satisfied?”

Napoleon lifted an eyebrow, stuck out his bottom lip as if in thought and nodded. He watched the diamond sparkle as Illya spoke.

“Would you care for one? They are very good.” Illya held up the cookie tin to Napoleon as if he were offering a sacrifice for his sins. Napoleon forgave him his trespasses immediately and received an angelic Illya smile for his grace. Napoleon took a bite of cookie and looked towards heaven.

“Yummmmm. Oh, these are good.”

Illya nodded and started on a second.

“You brought me take out from _Eng’s?_ Even though you were angry with me?” Illya glanced inquiringly at Napoleon. 

Napoleon sighed and smiled. “I wasn’t really angry. I’m so grateful to have you home, you crazy Russian. Now tell me why you couldn’t have stayed in Medical just an hour more. You know I would have sprung you as soon as I could. I would have wheeled you out of there and into my car so fast their heads would still be spinning. You do know that, Solnishko. Da?”

“Da, I know this. I...I’m sorry I worried Uncle Alex and Sam... and you. It is just that…”

Napoleon grew concerned and leaned forward with his hands tightly clasped. “What is it, Illya. You can tell me.”

“They refused to get me a radio! I asked very nicely, I’m _sure_ I did. You see, I have been looking forward…” Illya shook his ear jacks at Napoleon. “Cousin Brucie… the disc jockey... on ABeatleC. Radio 77 AM. He was having a Beatlefest for all his cousins… you know, umm... fans. All Beatles. All the time. I wanted to hear Cousin Brucie’s program and play along with my bongos. The vampires of Medical would not give me a radio, let alone send a courier for some bongos. Dorogoy! What was I to do?”

Napoleon was glad he was a trained spy. He schooled his features into one he hoped expressed empathy. On his insides the butterflies who seemed to have taken up permanent residency since he fell in love with Illya, were giggling and fluttering. Of all the things he had imagined his partner was agonizing over, missing a bongo session with _The Beatles_ was not one of them. 

Napoleon began to unpack the food. “Doctor Johnson never mentioned that. I didn’t know you were a beatlemaniac, IK.” 

Illya shot him an indignant look. “Do I look like an adolescent who would wiggle and scream if John Lennon shook his hair at me?” Illya shook his blond mop at Napoleon in demonstration.

Napoleon’s butterflies wiggled and screamed. “Ahhh, no. Of course not!”

Illya nodded, glad that Napoleon understood. “They saved my life.”

Napoleon saw in Illya’s eyes that he was deadly serious. “Okay, partner mine. Take a break from your bongos and tell me the tale.” 

Napoleon reached for the bongos and put them to the side. He rescued the cookie tin, closed it and put it next to the bongos. Then he helped Illya up and settled him on the couch, quilt around his shoulders, Chinese food container in one hand and chopsticks in the other. 

Illya grinned at his pepper steak and stirred it. Napoleon’s butterflies tickled his insides when Illya gave the second piece of dripping steak to Napoleon to savor. Napoleon picked up a crunchy egg roll in a napkin.

“Tell me,” Napoleon said as he pushed an errant bean sprout back in his mouth.

“It was early spring in 1963. Uncle Alex was using me as his personal courier. I wasn’t sure if he trusted me or was testing me, so I made sure to follow his directions carefully at all times. He sent me to Hamburg, Germany to pick up a very special pouch of tobacco from a tobacconist shop in a very dangerous part of the city. I was told not to open the pouch and still do not know for sure what I was carrying. I have the feeling it was not just tobacco since I was followed from the shop by a very large German Thrushiebird.”

~~~O~~~

March 1963, A Friday Night In Hamburg, Germany

A spectacular sunset was being wasted on a city that only began to come alive after dark. Illya ducked into yet another dirty alley with yet another streetwalker and her John were deep into negotiations. He frowned and hid in a doorway as a huge man in a black pin-striped suit ran by. 

In his earlier encounter with this mountain of a man, Illya had been thrown into a cluster of ripe garbage cans even the alley cats were done with. He had crushed his cigarette pack communicator and lost his gun to the mountain. Only his ability to run like the absent alley cats had saved his life. 

In his present darkening alley, the sunset colors of gold and purple were playing off his blond hair and sky blue eyes. He panted in the doorway. He thought he heard sigh of appreciation coming from a dark haired lady of the evening. He wondered if it was meant for him, but just as quickly dismissed the notion. He knew from experience that people like her and himself were invisible. He saw the lady turn away and Illya headed towards the street again.

Illya walked by a bar that looked practically homey among the over-abundance of seedy nightclubs and cheap, one hour hotels. He opened the door to Gretel and Alfons and inhaled the aroma of home-cooked food and true German beer.

Alfons looked like a Hamburg bartender should. Balding dome, paunchy middle, eyes that saw all and a mouth that seldom opened. He was behind his bar absently drying some beer steins with a bar towel. A cowbell above the door signaled Illya’s entrance and all eyes were on him for a moment. Alfons frowned. 

Four leather-jacketed customers were sprawled out at two tables as if they owned the place. They stopped chatting and looked at Illya. Slightly out of breath, Illya smiled while brushing clingy bits of florescent garbage from his black pants. He pulled his black jacket and turtleneck back into alignment. He walked up to the bar and took off his sunglasses. , _”Bier, mein guter Mann,”_ He said pleasantly as he reached into his pocket and deposited a large bill on the bar in front of him. Alfons smiled and lifted the bill. He pulled a beer into a large stein and set it in front of Illya with a nod, keeping the change.

Illya sipped his beer and glanced at his fellow customers. The four young men looked a bit like brothers, and definitely not German. He listened in on their resumed conversation and caught enough of the tone to confirm that they were English, from Liverpool or thereabouts. The youngest, didn’t seem old enough to be out of school, let alone sipping beer in a seedy Hamburg bar. Yet here he was, tipping his rickety wooden chair back almost to the breaking point and smirking at the “brother” on his right.

“Stop messin’ about George,” the other said, never looking up from the notebook he was scribbling in. “You’re gonna break ya daft neck doin’ that.”

“Mind ya own, Paulie, you ain’t me mum, though ya kinda look like Ringo’s mum.”

Ringo, a slightly older and shorter “brother” perhaps so named because of the several rings on his fingers, said nothing. Instead he took a small sip from a tea cup and a long drag from his cigarette.

“Now you’ve done it, George. Ringo’s got a right sulk on now.”

“Shut up, Johnny boy,” said George. He glanced at Illya who looked away.

“Temper. Temper.” John leaned forward and adjusted his leather cap, as if prepping for a fight.

Intrigued by these young Liverpudlians, Illya approached their table.

“Excuse me, gentlemen. Allow me to introduce myself. I am Illya Nickovetch Kuryakin.” Illya bowed. “I couldn’t help but notice that you are speaking English. Perhaps I may join you?”

He was suddenly met with a united front of appraising eyes. George brought his chair down with a crash, knocking the table and spilling Ringo’s tea into his saucer. Ringo rolled his eyes and still said nothing. His cigarette smoke forming a screen in front of his face.

The kitchen door opened and Gretel herself, carrying a large tray of food, came floating out on a waft of hot air smelling of fresh baked bread and spices. The round motherly woman smiled warmly at Illya.

“What is this? Another Beatle? A blond one? Sit, Blond Beatle, you need fattening up!”

The real Beatles laughed. Paul stood and took the tray from Gretel with an adorable smile lighting his face. George started taking plates, bowls and bread baskets from the tray and laying them out on the table. Ringo stared at Illya and finished what was left of his tea. John stood and wrapped his arms around Gretel’s ample waist.

“Gretel, me love! When are ya goin’ to leave all this behind and run away with me?”

Gretel giggled like a young fraulein. “Perhaps when I grow tired of Alfons… and when Alfons gets rid of the rifle he keeps beneath the bar.”

John pulled his hands away as if burned and Alfons nodded and chuckled. Illya’s tip had put him in a good mood.

Paul put the tray down on an empty table and turned to Illya and said pleasantly, “Come on. Blondie. Sit. We won’t bite.”

Illya spied the relish tray, German potato salad, Kaiser rolls and heaps of black forest ham. He felt his stomach start to rumble. He was hungry, but remained polite.

“I hate to intrude, but if you will allow me to pay for the meal and buy you another round of whatever you are drinking…”

At the mention of footing the bill, Illya suddenly found himself sitting at the table with John’s arm around him and George filling his plate with food. Paul had already gathered steins and gone to the bar to get five beers. “Ringo? You want a brew now?”

Ringo leaned back, looked at Paul and nodded. He continued to stare at Illya.

Paul quickly returned and handed out the steins. “I’m Paul McCartney. That’s John Lennon, George Harrison, and Ringo Starr.” Illya nodded to each in turn. “We got a gig over at the Star Club down the street. We’ve got a little rock roll band goin’.”

“Called The Beatles,” finished John.

“Ah!” said Illya. “So that is why Gretel called me ‘The Blond Beatle.’ I thought she was referring to the crawling kind.”

“You got an interestin’ look goin’ on there Blondie,” said John.”I like your ‘aircut and ya shades.”

“Yeah,” said George. “I like that black turtle with your jacket. Saves on buyin’ bleedin’ ties don’t it though?”

Illya smiled and continued building a towering sandwich.

“What do you do… Illya was it?” asked Paul politely.

Illya finished chewing a huge bite of his sandwich and wiped his fingers on a red checkered napkin that matched the tablecloth and the white vase with a single rose on in the middle of the table.

“I work for a New York import/export company. My boss sent me here to pick up a few things for him. He’s a bit eccentric.”

“I can think of a few things you could pick up in this little burg, but nothing a rich eccentric New Yorker could use,” said John. His eyes flashed to the other Beatles.

George sat back and crossed his arms. “I’m writin’ a detective thriller, myself. Callin’ it _The Big Lie._ Maybe they’ll be a part for you in the movie, Ill-e-ya.”

“You all think I’m lying to you?” Three heads nodded in unison. Ringo just continued to stare.”What about you Ringo? Do you have an opinion?”

Ringo took a drag of his cigarette and exhaled with a soft whistle. “Wha’, me? Opinion? I don’t ‘ave an opinion, mate. I don’t even smoke.”

John and George chuckled and Paul shook his head. Ringo smiled and leaned towards Illya.  
.  
“Look, Mista Kury-a-kin. What I want to know is why a big ugly ape is waitin’ outside the door for you and wha’ kinda trouble you’re in. Then I’ll give you my opinion as to whether me mates and I will ‘elp you out or ‘elp you out the door.” Russian and British blue eyes met and Illya knew he could trust these Beatles with the truth.

~~~O~~~

Napoleon had sunk into the couch. Empty food containers, discarded chop sticks and crumpled napkins littered the coffee table. The vodka glass was empty and refilled with water. Napoleon’s evocative brown eyes eyes were at half-mast, charmed by Illya’s tale. His arm had slipped around Illya as he spoke. 

Illya, in turn, had taken Napoleon’s hand and held it in a light embrace, changing position now and then. Napoleon had never felt so at home anywhere. He didn’t want to ever leave. Napoleon stroked Illya’s hair, and rolled his earring in his fingers.

“Don’t stop, Illya. This is fascinating.”

Illya smiled.

“There’s not much more to tell. I told them who I was. Showed them my U.N.C.L.E. credentials. They were very excited and eager to help as you can imagine. The Beatles smuggled me out the cellar door and into _The Star Club.”_

“They told their manager, Horst, a big brute of a man, that I was a cousin of theirs who wanted to stay with them for the night and would be playing with the band. I mentioned he wouldn’t have to pay me and I’d buy my own beer and he was all for it.” 

“I played Ringo’s bongos at first till I learned the set. Later, I played bass, lead guitar and sang. I even shook my head at a few frauleins and made them scream. The Beatles liked that.”

Napoleon grinned. “So basically you taught The Beatles how to be The Beatles.”

“Well, I might have helped tweak their style a bit. But they are very talented musicians, Napoleon.”

Napoleon threw back his head and laughed. Illya looked at him sideways with a puzzled half-smile on his face. When Napoleon recovered he asked, “So what happened to the Thrushie?”

Illya smiled at the memory. Napoleon put his head on Illya’s shoulder and enjoyed the view. 

~~~O~~~

March 1963, A Saturday Morning After A Friday Night In Hamburg, Germany

Horst, manager of _The Star Club,_ yawned around his coffee cup. It had been a good night. The till was overflowing and The Beatles plus one little blond U.N.C.L.E. agent were sharing a well-earned breakfast with him. Illya had told Horst his problem and Horst was busy thinking of solutions.

“This pig who wants to kill you is still outside. I have many eyes and they are all on him. No one threatens my boys and gets away with it.”

Paul sipped his coffee, then leaned in to speak quietly. “Illya needs to board the train to Berlin without an escort, if you get me drift, Horst.”

“Da,” Illya agreed, “I have a ticket to ride the 9:09, I believe.” Illya took out his ticket and tried to read the time of departure of his train. He squinted. John, who was blind without his glasses, took it from him and squinted even more. Ringo merely sighed.

“Give it ‘ere.” He pulled to ticket away from Illya. “ It says you’re on the one after 9:09, Blondie. The 10:10.” Ringo handed back the little stub. Paul made a few notes in his ever present, _Good Titles For Songs,_ notebook.

George was resting his head on the table. His eyes were closed, but he still managed to mumble, “Why don’t we just go out there and give ‘im a good thrashing. I’m up for it. I’ve been punched in the face a few times, it’s all a part o’ life isn’t it?”

Illya put a hand on his arm. “I’m quite sure he has a weapon of some kind, George. A big knife at best. A big knife and my gun at worst. I will not allow any of you to be hurt on my account. You have done so much already.”

“But Illya…” John started. 

Horst raised a hand and everyone was silenced.

“Horst will take care of this. You boys do not worry your floppy mop tops over this little thing.”

Illya sighed. He couldn’t live with himself if an innocent was hurt. He lowered his voice.“I am a trained agent, Horst. I can not allow…”

“Blond Beatle, I fought in the big war, I survived the camps, I am no innocent. I do this. You have no say. Paul, tell your friend Alan get ready the van, park it running by the cellar steps. You give blond Beatle your hat and coat, John. He is smaller even than Ringo here. He will hide in plain sight. Leave from cellar at eight sharp. I will do rest.”

Illya nodded and as Horst rose to leave he shook his hand. Horst. I am forever in your debt.”

Horst smiled slowly. _“Ja, das bist Du. Ja,_ you are, Blond Beatle.”

The Beatles rose and when Horst was gone, Paul gave an exaggerated shiver and said, “I think it might be time for The Beatles to leave beautiful, exotic Hamburg, mates. You want some company, Illya?”

~~~O~~~

“They did not leave that particular day. They saw me to the train station and returned safely to _The Star Club._ But shortly thereafter I heard their voices coming out of my transistor radio. I am very, very happy for them.”

Illya looked down on Napoleon whose head was now resting on his lap. Illya’s hand was on his chest and Napoleon held it there. Illya smirked. “You like my tale of _The Blond Beatle,_ Dorogoy?”

“Ummmm. Yes. Immensely,” said Napoleon. “One thing is missing from your tale, Solnishko.”

“Da? What is missing?” Illya played with the soft brown hair on Napoleon’s forehead that always begged to be curled. 

“A song! I interrupted you earlier. I would dearly love to hear you play your bongos and sing me a Beatles tune. Will you? Please?”

Illya tilted his head, made sure that Napoleon was not teasing him, then gave a brief nod. “Da. I will sing and play for you. But you must be quiet. No rude comments. Now get yourself up!”

Napoleon’s butterflies gave a sort of hysterical whimper and decided to start dancing to the music before there was any music. He managed to right himself and regretfully let go of Illya’s hand. Illya slipped to the floor with a grunt and reached for his bongos with a slight grimace.

Napoleon’s butterflies’ flight gave a sympathetic dip, echoing Illya’s discomfort. “Oh! Sorry, Illya. We were so cozy here I almost forgot about… maybe you should take your pills now, and I’ll tuck you in for a nap… I’ll clean up and…”

Iliya scowled and raised one hand in an imitation of Horst of Hamburg. The look in his icy blue eyes froze Napoleon to the spot.

“I will say this once. I am fine and I definitely do not need a mother. You will sit and listen to the song that I sing for you.”

Napoleon sat and remained silent. He wondered how anyone could talk with butterflies in their stomach doing cartwheels at the words, “...song that I sing for you.”

Illya closed his eyes and began swaying to internal music. After a moment he sang, “Da da da Dum… Da da da Dum.”

His hands began to move across the tight drumheads. Napoleon expected harsh banging, but was entranced by the percussive notes Illya’s long fingers were coaxing from the bongos.

“Da da da Dum.”

Napoleon watched Illya’s hands. They floated across the drums, fingers dipping in to tap, now in the middle, now on the edge. Each tap a slightly different tone, that mixed together to form a beat that Napoleon’s heart was compelled to duplicate. His heartbeat and the beat of Illya’s bongos became one.

“Da da da Dum.”

Illya’s hand smacked the middle of the slightly smaller bongo drum. A firm bang accentuated the strong downbeat of the song. Illya stopped swaying, opened his eyes fully and jerked his head up. He opened his mouth. The words caught Napoleon full in the heart. He opened his own mouth slightly since he found it hard to breath.

"I give him all my love  
That's all I do  
And if you saw my love  
You'd love him too  
I love him"

Illya smiled at Napoleon’s expression. Then looked down at his bongos for only a moment. Tilting his head he raised his eyes to Napoleon’s. Napoleon smiled in turn. Illya continued, his voice and eyes now showing a longing that made Napoleon shiver.

"He gives me everything  
And tenderly  
The kiss my lover brings  
He brings to me  
And I love him"

Illya changed the beat, and the bongos sounded intimate and soft, like a first kiss.

"A love like ours  
Could never die  
As long as I  
Have you near me"

Napoleon closed his eyes for a moment. The words “could never die,” moved him with a deep fear and a deeper commitment. He opened them to Illya’s shy smile and loving sincere eyes. The fear vanished.

"Bright are the stars that shine  
Dark is the sky  
I know this love of mine  
Will never die  
And I love him"

Napoleon saw Illya become lost in the music. His hands flew across the skins, beating, tapping out the rhythm that expressed what Napoleon knew was so hard for the tough little Russian _shpion_

"Bright are the stars that shine  
Dark is the sky  
I know this love of mine  
Will never die  
And I love him"

Napoleon watched Illya bring the beats to an end with a swift flutter of his fingers. He hung his head and his hair fell forward. It was getting quite long and shaggy. Illya’s diamond earring grabbed the light in the room and held it.

Napoleon waited for that head to lift and those eyes to pierce his. When they did, Napoleon saw the unspoken questions in them. Was Illya welcome? Did he understand what Illya was saying with the music?

Napoleon simply leaned back and opened his arms. Illya put aside his bongos and slinked like a lost cat seeking the warmth of a human touch up to Napoleon’s legs. He lay his head on his Napoleon’s knee a moment and was rewarded with a stroke from his trembling hand and a soft. ”Illya,” from Napoleon’s lips.

Illya continued climbing into Napoleon’s arms till those arms wrapped around him, gently pulling him closer till he was inches from Napoleon’s mouth.

“Solnishko? Do you want to kiss me?”

“Da.”

Napoleon pushed Illya’s hair behind one ear and then the other.

“Do you know, Illya Nickovetch Kuryakin, how much I love you? Do you know I would never hurt you?”

“Da, da. I know this.”

“Are you sure you’re ready for where this kiss will lead, baby?”

Napoleon grinned. Illya leaned in and bit his chin.

“Okay! Okay! I won’t call you baby!”

“Da. You will not. Never again. Till the day we die and after.”

Napoleon brought his hand to Illya’s cheek and caressed it. He was overwhelmed with a feeling that his life was just about to begin.

“Solnishko…” he breathed into Illya’s open mouth.

“I know this love of ours will never die, “ Illya sang softly and kissed Napoleon.

Napoleon’s butterflies burst into flames.

~~~O~~~

The End

I know our love for Illya, Napoleon and The Beatles could never die. 

Thank you for reading this series! Thank you, my wonderful friend Spencer5460 for your help, encouragement and squeees.


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